Blade's Ailment
by RobinObsession
Summary: Four years after the end of The Lord Protector, Blade has a problem...


Author's Note: Just a little snippet that came to mind after finishing the Queen's Blade series by the wonderful and talented TC Southwell. Enjoy :)

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The summer Blade turned three and fifty found the long-retired assassin in a taproom far from the estate he'd bought to share with Chiana. Against his will, he was traveling to Cotti to see Minna-Satu and Kerrion after he'd received a letter from the Elder Queen requesting his presence. He'd never been able to deny the aged queen, Blade reflected with a fond smile. In the four years that had passed since his final retirement, Blade had come to terms with the warmth that kept the ice shield around his heart at bay; Rivan's presence made sure of that. The black woodcat was always at his side, and lay at his feet as winter-gray eyes drifted lazily over the occupants of the taproom again. It was getting late, and Blade was mildly surprised that no scuffles had broken out among the merrily drunk customers.

Just as the idle thought occurred to Blade, the first punch was thrown and the room thrown into chaos in mere moments. It was a small room, and the lithe assassin found himself caught in the corner of the room with few ways out. Sharp blue-gray eyes landed on the window with a grimace; he'd long thought his window-leaping days were over, but apparently there was always a time when making a dramatic exit was necessary. It was that or the door, Blade mused, but he relished the thought of dodging through that many violent, heaving bodies less than earning himself a few cuts on broken glass.

His decision made, Blade avoided punches and tackles not meant for him as he stood and backed away a few paces to give himself a running start. With his age came joints that gave him trouble, and he rubbed his knees briefly before heading towards the window at a dead run. In the split second when his upper body had already broken the glass, chin to his chest and hitting the glass shoulders first, someone rammed someone else into him. His backside bore the brunt of the attacked man's massive weight, but an elbow struck his lower back with agonizing force as Blade's hips were caught against the window ledge, his torso dangling out. There was a moment of blinding pain, then he must have gone into shock when his lower half went numb. The two fighting men moved away, and Blade struggled to crawl out of the window without the use of his legs. A few minutes clawing at the side of the building earned him torn nails and the small victory of tumbling outside.

The assassin landed in an ungraceful heap in the dirt, smearing his black leather clothes with mud and filth, and Rivan landed beside him a second later on all four paws. Blade grumbled under his breath about the damned youth of his familiar half-heartedly as he attempted to sort himself out, finally managing to get himself sitting up with his back against the tavern's wall. Eyes like a mid-winter storm landed on his useless legs, and a frown twisted Blade's lips. If it had been shock that numbed his legs, it should have already receded by now, right? A sensation the assassin knew almost intimately tingled in his mind as he sat there, the noise of the fight dimming in Blade's mind until it was a mere droning under-toning the pounding of blood in his ears.

His alarms were going off.

Something was wrong.

His frown turning into a scowl, Blade dug bloodied fingers into the grooves of the tavern's wall and attempted to haul himself up. He managed to laboriously pull himself halfway up, then he shifted some of his weight onto his feet, and crumpled with a curse as his fingertips ripped in the process.

Blade was back to staring at his limp legs. Thoughts flitted through his mind, each one worse than the last and making his heart pound in his chest.

Would he be able to get back to his horse to find another inn for the night? What if he couldn't? How could he get to a healer? If it wasn't shock keeping him down, what was? Would it last a tenday? A moon? A year? Would it be...permanent? Would he ever be able to dance again?

The night was warm, but the elder assassin shivered like it was the dead of winter.

Would he ever _walk_ again?


End file.
